


FoAtAo^kv'boWjIowo., IS\&. 




Class fi>e2__- 
Book.FTS6_ 



^oWoDok-%i 



An Historical Sketch of 
Fort Madison, in Verse 

BY 

EARLE SLOAN SMITH 




reprinted from 

The Evening Democrat 

Fort Madison. Iowa, 

OF Nov. 8. 1916 



PotoWonok 



The brilliant leaves so gay and bright, 
So rich with crimson, dark and light. 
Well mingled with a golden hue 
And some of autumn's yellow too. 
All painted up to dance their last 
Are flying on October's blast. 
See, they are whirling, twirling here 
And breathing music on my ear. 
But list, they seem to breath a sigh 
As rustling, bustling they flit by. 
What do they say in dancing pur? 
They're speaking in a gentle whir 
While they in circles roll and ride. 
Or through the sylvian bowers glide. 

"Come close," they said to me one day, 

"And we will sing for you a lay. 

That you may write in measured rhyme 

A story of the early time." 

And this is what the leaves told me 

While they were whirling thus in glee: 

"We all were members of a band 

That used to roam this pleasant land. 

We fought with Blackhawk, tried and true. 

And all this land that's known to you. 

In those old days now long gone by. 

Did echo with our battle cry. 

"The paleface drove us from our land, 
Despoil'd our graves, dispers'd our band. 
Till we in sorrow driven, died — 
Our love for home we could not hide; 
So we have changed our forms to leaves, 
And when the autumn zephyr breathes 
We deck ouselves in war-like hue 
And come to dance and sing for you." 

The leaf did pause, and by the side 

The Mississippi, grand and wide. 

Spake up and said, " 'Tis true, 'tis true. 

I've heard the tale the leaves told you. 

O yes, 'tis so; O yes, 'tis so, 

I've seen it all, that's how I know." 

The stately oak, the creek beside. 
Whose branches are so wondrous wide, 
Began by nodding to and fro. 
Then whispered softly, "It is so." 
The spokesman of the leaves then said, 
"I'll tell a tale you never read. 
Now listen closely, you shall hear 
The tale we whisper once a year: 
Back in the year of eighteen eight 
The paleface laden with his freight 
Stopped here and built a stockade 'round 
This very piece of sacred ground. 

"Our most loved maid with gentlest heart, 
Soon learned to love the white man's art. 
She loved to hear the captain's praise, 
His gentle voice and pleasing phrase. 
Full fair was he, the paleface chief. 
To her young heart 'twas the belief 
That he was nearer god than man. 



As fires flame before the fan, 

So flames the love within the heart 

When once the little spark does start. 

So in the breast of this dark maid 

A spark of love for paleface laid, 

Which breaking forth did brightly glow 

As burning embers in the snow. 



"At night, they arm in arm would go 
In forest shade and moonlight glow 
While birds were chirping up above 
They whispr'd softly words of love. 
By river bank and woodland tree. 
They wander'd lovingly and free. 
Till Quash-a-qua-ma, jealous chief. 
Was fill'd with rage; 'twas his belief 
That paleface came to this fair land 
To steal our dusky maiden's hand. 



"While thus enrag'd he plann'd to burn 
The fort and inmates in their turn. 
So we were deck'd in feathers tall, 
Put on bright paints and blankets, all 
Beneath, concealed, was fix'd the knife 
With which to end the white man's life. 
We'd plann'd to go up to the fort. 
To give a dance we would report, 
And when engag'd in dizzy whirl 
From off our shoulders we would twirl 
The heavy blankets, one and all. 
Then on the helpless whites we'd fall. 
While going to the fort to dance 
Each savage spirit seem'd to prance; 
Each heart was throbbing by a knife 
We pray'd would take a white man's life. 



"Our dreams were vain; the paleface knew. 
And he was ready for us, too. 
The chief alone was shown within; 
The rest with restless savage din 
Broke tor the gate, a curtain raised. 
Into a cannon's mouth we gazed; 
And drawn behind in perfect line 
The soldiers stood, each taking finest 
Aim at us. Then pointing to 
Our chief, 'Brave Quash-a-qua-ma do 
No more of this, the captain said, 
'You are our brothers, braves of red. 
Yet you must know this brings but grief. 
The great white chief hates sneaky chief. 
So go your way rememb'ring that 
This foolish trick of yours fell flat.' 



"We left the fort, our hatred buru'd 
For vengeance ev'ry red man yearn'd 
We did not know this maid of ours 
Had slipp'd among the leafy bow'rs 
Unto the paleface fort to tell 
That all was not a-going well; 
That we had plann'd to make a raid 
And told of every detail made. 
'Twas so, the love within her breast 
Had conquered race and all the rest. 



"The years roU'd on; we wished to fight. 
We talk'd hy day and watch'd hy night. 
At length we gather'd warriors strong 
And with a dash our painted throng 
Came forth, the stockade to surround. 
The braves knew ev'ry spot of ground, 
And ev'ry tree did shield a brave 
Who wish'd to fill a paleface grave. 



"But lo! before our dazzled eyes 
A fire lighted all the skies. 
The stockade there within our view 
Got red and then it redder grew — 
Till bursting forth in mighty flame. 
The fire through ev'ry crevice came. 



"The garrison had gotten weak 

Withstanding winters cold and bleak. 

Their reinforcements did not come; 

For months they had expected some; 

The food supply was getting low; 

They had their choice to die or go. 

The soldiers fled; we tho't them there; 

They'd dug a tunnel with much care 

Out from the well. We little knew 

The things that they had plann'd to do. 

They fired the fort, crawl'd through the hole 

And to the river bank they stole, 

Where, safely tied, they found their boat; 

And down the river they did float; 

While we, with screeching, merry din. 

Stood there and watched the walls cave in. 
Till last all fell save just the place 

Wherein the paleface kept his fire 

And their old chimney standing high'r. 
Which by the mighty spirit's grace, 
Was left to mark the ruin'd place. 

We cried aloud: 'We've won! we've won!' 

Thus ended old Fort Madison. 



"For many years the chimney stood 
Beside the old primeval wood. 
And ever when the east wind blew 
And all our graves were wet with dew, 
It seemed to whisper soft and low, 
'Braves, I will stay and you will go.' 
Old Potowonok then we named it. 
For that name seem'd most to fit. 

"And thus stood Potowonok old. 

That many tales has often told. 

To those of us who came to see 

And solve its silent mystery. 

It seemed to tell of things to be — 

That soon or late our race would see. 

It did not represent the past 

Or victories that could not last; 

It stood and ever seem'd to tell, 

As did the old deserted well. 

Of diff'rent tribes and new conditions, 

Of newer legends and traditions; 

That our traditions, long and old. 

By other races would be told — 

That customs and traditions all 

In time before the whites would fall. 

It was the driftwood of a tide, 



Whose flow was ever swelling wide, 
That for a few brief years arose 
To ebb again into repose, 
Until the wave would stronger be. 
Then as the billows of the sea, 
'Twould come again and taking all 
Our race was surely doomed to fall. 



"Here, on her knees, our maiden prayed. 
And always longing, ling'ring stay'd 
By Potowonok's ruin'd base, 
Like her who watche'd by Basil's vase. 
Oft' in her anguish she would cry 
To this old chimney standing by, 
'Old Potowonok, will my dear, 
My paleface lover, meet me here?' 
And when the breeze would softly blow 
The chimney sadly answer'd, 'no-o-o.' 
And the maiden drooping waited 

By old Potowonok's side 
For the one with whom she mated r 

There she waited, there she died 
A victim of a broken heart; 
But of the world she's still a part. 
For when from earth she pass'd away 
Her lovelorn heart so longed to stay 
That her great Father, by his art, 
Transform'd her to a bleeding heart. 
So she is with us now as then 
To cheer the hearts of weary men; 
And on a lonely grave she grows. 
What grave it is, ah, no one knows, 
'Tis there her teardrops all are shed 
Upon her lover's narrow bed. 



"The Potowonok of old days 
No longer with the east wind plays, 
No longer stands to mark the place 
Where once there dwelt a warlike race. 
Like all things on the sea of life. 
Which rocks and rolls in endless strife. 
So must the best things one and all 
Crumble and waste, in ruin fall. 



"Still, when the autumn breezes blow. 
And painted leaves about you go, 
Remember that they dance and play 
As we in life did many a day; 
And when the bleeding heart shall grow 
In quiet places that you know. 
Pray think of her, our gentle maid, 
Whose spirit in those flowers stay'd. 
So shall it be when you are gone. 
When time has roll'd your spirit on. 
Some friend of yours, in musing hours. 
Shall see your likeness in the flowers; 
For tho' we're gone there lingers still 
A trace that makes tor good or ill." 



^. 



' 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



016 086 526 A 






;^;'3>i« 



m 



wmmSW 




lisii 



•'Mi 



»MWt?i 



